so put another dime in the jukebox, baby

aphrodite is a whore: she wrecks men with a kiss and they lose themselves in her cunt. later, she sneaks the lipstick stained cigarette from her girlfriend’s mouth and leafs through mills and boon novels with yellow-tipped fingers.

[h-ellriot]

Home, sweet home.

I actually kind of wish I was still at the Bayou.

[landslidewritings]

Perhaps I don’t know you at all, which is in fact, most certainly okay with me.

Would you prefer something else? Something a bit more fitting?

[h-ellriot]

Fine, then. Reject my friendship; I’ll have you know, I’m a lovely person to be around and an excellent conversationalist.

No, I like it. I’m endeared; I’m just also curious.

[oliverlatour-blog]

Read More

[h-ellriot]

There was something headily animalistic about Oliver on top of her; his hands pressed along her skin, fingers dug into her hips, hard and bruising. The broken blood vessels wouldn’t last; just like he wouldn’t, just like they wouldn’t - but Harper couldn’t help the soft cry she gave, a reaction to being used, a reaction to being wanted. It may not have been her, necessarily, he wanted - but it was her body, and she brought a hand up to curl fingers over the back of his neck as he buried his face against her shoulder, nails digging in, unable to stop the back and forth rock of her hips against him even when he froze as he came.

She let her hand drop, both palms falling flat back against the dirt as she let her head hang, body seizing a little in an instinctual attempt to keep going, push harder and farther and longer because she wanted to come, even though she hadn’t in years, and Harper didn’t want to think too much about why she wanted it so badly with him. Maybe it was the primal movement of it all - the fact that he was a wolf; the half of her that was definitively animal and predatory and unaware of the other factors of her biology wanted him; strong and healthy and so obviously desperate to protect his family and she could process that - but the emotional aspect was something she couldn’t think about, not when he was still pressed against her, inside her, and she could feel his heartbeat against her back. “Oliver?” She prompted eventually, quiet, bringing a hand up to wipe the dirt against her thigh before putting her fingers through her hair, tucking her bangs back behind her ear.

[sawyerhenrikson]

“Everything is wrong. You look like shit. What happened?”

[h-ellriot]

“Thanks for the observation; I feel like shit. And I could ask you the same question,”

“I got blown up. What happened to you?”

[landslidewritings]

I couldn’t care less about your whereabouts or the time of your arrival, little one. As for the coffee, perhaps it’s your drink of choice, but I prefer something a bit more tasteful.

[h-ellriot]

Tasteful? Like liquor? Please, Klaus; know me a little better; you think I’d have a coffee without making it Irish?

Also, why do you keep calling me little one?

[h-ellriot]

First of all, I don’t think I was this closely guarded or on as tight a curfew when I lived with my parents - second of all, I have three hours, so we’re having real coffee. For real. With all the crap in it that makes it less real.

[sawyerhenrikson]

“I hate this town.”

[h-ellriot]

“Hey, woah - Sawyer, what’s wrong?”

[howlingmarshall]

No, you don’t.

I was more planning on telling Klaus. He’s always worried the wolves are going to leave me to die if someone attacks, maybe he’ll feel better when he sees a vampire is here too. I can only imagine. Hey, at least you’re not dead. You have stitches? What happened to your vampire healing? Well, that’s gross. I’m afraid to ask why your stomach was open.

[h-ellriot]

Shutup.

Klaus doesn’t like me, sweets; not sure my presence would do much to ease his worries. Telling him Juliet is here might help, though; medical presence and all. Vervain negates vampire healing, babe. Turns out the bomb was pumped full of it.

I was practicing my cesarean sections, obviously; you know, just in case. No, I tried to operate on myself to remove the shrapnel.

[sincerelyjoanna-blog-blog]

[oliverlatour-blog]

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[h-ellriot]

Harper didn’t reply, pulling her lip between her teeth and wishing for her own silence as she listened to him settle in the ground behind her. It was dirty, and fast, and unsanitary and badly executed - and there were so many things wrong with what they were doing, where they were doing, how they were doing it. She let a rush of a breath out when he grabbed her by the hips, jerking her back to meet his, and set her second hand against the ground for balance as he ran his nose against her skin, the only tender contact they’d had - well, ever; the only tender anything they’d had ever, she was near positive. She took a breath, closing her eyes with the way his lips pressed to her - and then exhaled hard, more a whimper than anything else, one loud enough she was sure someone had to have heard them, someone had to know what they were doing - that was, if they hadn’t put it together before now. The two of them hadn’t exactly been discreet.

She nearly let out a shout at how hard he bit her, almost positive it was going to break the skin - and almost breaking through her own lip with how hard she dug her teeth to stop herself from crying out, from instinctually telling him to stop even though she didn’t want him to. She shifted her balance, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck and holding him to her, the length of his chest pressed to her back, moving together. She knew she wouldn’t finish with him - she was sure she wouldn’t finish at all; but she knew that he could, and she wanted him to get there - so much so that, for the first time in a long time, she half-considered faking it for him, if that was what he needed.

[h-ellriot]

oliverlatour:

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Harper gave a muffled sort of moan as he kissed her again, hard, too hard, and curled her hands into fists against his chest, resisting the urge to smack him just for the sake of it, just for the sake of violence and anger and pain and every other thing she couldn’t get enough of anywhere else. Instead, she just pressed hard, and forced herself into keeping eye contact with him, pressing her lips together to silence any panicked sort of ramble she might manage when he spoke again, the order definitive and her legs still stinging from where the denim had torn. She almost wanted to snap at him for it - for the fact that all she had to wear home now was a bra, underwear and pants torn and tossed and tanktop barely a rag - but she shutup, letting out a breath through her nose with the order and unhooking her legs from his waist, pressing her palms down his chest until she could hook her fingers in his jeans, her eyes on the planes of his abdomen, having broken eye contact as soon as she was on her feet and refusing to meet his gaze again. She pressed her lips to his collarbone as she undid the button of his jeans, tilting her head up as she undid the zipper to run her nose the length of his neck, teeth digging at the base of his jaw.

She tugged once she had them undone, pulling away to bend as she tugged them down, settling not quite comfortably on her knees in the dirt. It felt like a flashback, a full throwback to someone else somewhere else who she shouldn’t have been thinking about here, and now - and she avoided reliving it too much, avoided forgoing his order and putting her lips on him by instead using both hands to lift each of his feet in turn, slowly tugging his jeans free of his ankles and then looking up at him, unsure how to express what she wanted - what she thought he probably wanted, without completely demeaning herself. “You don’t want to look at me,” she finally said, softly, shifting to turn so her back was to him, still on her knees, pulling her hair over her shoulder and setting the other on the ground, palm flat and fingers spread. “So just - just fuck me,” Harper gave, still quiet, closing her eyes and hoping to God he wouldn’t just leave her in the dirt.

[oliverlatour-blog]

Oliver ignored her words. She was lying and they both knew it. He could argue with her, but the feeling of her against his body, making him feel like his wasn’t the only one aching, was the better alternative. Maybe she had felt a connection; maybe this was more than two hurting souls trying to find some replacements for those they have lost along the way, but Oliver had never fucking doubted something more in his life before. Instead of booze, he was using sex to cope and as he tangled his hand in her brunette hair, the texture of it mildly like Piper’s, he could pretend. It wasn’t fair to her. It wasn’t fair to him. Certainly, it wasn’t fair to his dead girlfriend. But for one second, one goddamn second, if his memory could lapse and his judgement could be thrown out the door, Oliver would happily use this abomination of nature to find that release. Maybe he’d feel guilt later. Maybe he wouldn’t. The words to tell her to lose her fucking clothes vanished like the people they loved had; instead he ripped her shirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him, like the care and gentleness he had once possessed. He was giving her wanted she wanted, wasn’t he? He didn’t kiss along her neck, didn’t caress her collarbone; he thrusted with his hips to return what she had done and kissed her lips fiercely, nipping and nearly biting them to the point of blood. He didn’t open any wounds. Though he could see himself fucking her against the cabin and he could envision what she looked like bare and exposed, he couldn’t forget she was a vampire and blood would only force him to acknowledge that. So he bruised her — which healed — and he bit her — which she probably liked — and pulled his own shirt over his head. He needed to feel the heat his body had and the humid air surrounding him. He needed to feel Harper, as much as he didn’t want to, in hopes he’d feel someone else. 

[h-ellriot]

She should’ve told him not to bite her. As soon as she felt teeth, she should have told him no, pulled back, pulled away, pushed him away. But she didn’t. It summed up her relationship with Oliver relatively well - the fact that she didn’t. She let his teeth dig too hard and hoped a little too much for them to break skin and didn’t think about the way guilt should be pooling her chest with the idea of leaving the people she loved - with the idea of letting him take the fall for her death, with the idea of going this way. But he didn’t tear anything, only broke blood vessels under the skin that healed almost instantaneously and drug teeth enough to make her adrenalin hop and rush and scare her and want him. She dropped her head back, breaking from his lips to arch her back so she could undo her bra, dropping it and immediately bringing her hand up to the back of his head, pulling him back to kiss her again. He could use her as violently as he wanted - fuck, as she wanted; he could bruise and bite and rip and tear and make her bleed, for all she cared, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to fight back.

She reminded him of Piper. She knew it; she knew she did - she reminded plenty of people of Piper; they looked much alike, same statures, same smirks and toss away words - she knew it was why he was doing this, but she wasn’t sure if he got that he reminded her of Piper. That he smelled like her, still, even now; the edges of burnt magic and bright love and the way Piper smiled was pressed into his neck, where her hands were now, spanning the places the other girl’s lips had etched into. She flatted them down to grab his collar, tearing his shirt down the center and digging her teeth into his lower lip. She wanted to tell him to fuck her - wanted to make demands and give orders - and instead she dug her teeth to the base of his jaw, nails pressing into the back of his neck. “What do you want?” She pushed softly, pulling her nails down the front of his chest, “Tell me what you want me to do,”

[oliverlatour-blog]

“If you spend your nights on the street corner selling yourself, then by all means, you’re the whore. If you don’t, you’re just a woman that enjoys sex like all the rest.” He was very firm in that regard. His title was the beta, but he had never simplified himself to just that. He was also the orphan. And the stray. Humans did not give themselves to just one title. To him, that’s what made them who they were. Harper may have been a slut, but she was also a vampire, a widow, a handler of death. She was just not the woman who found herself in different beds.

He hadn’t known what he was doing when his hand first touched her skin and he doubted — want to believe, wanted to think — that she didn’t know what she was doing either. The topic of their conversation had been an accident. Oliver wanted to deny her words, wanted to push them and her away, but before the action could even be thought about, she was touching him. The contact burned at first; not physical pain and he barely felt how cold she was. It was emotional pain. It was mental pain. It was all in his head. He couldn’t breathe as her hand touched his chest, had lost the memory of the action he had known since he was born. The blonde gaped at her, his chest tight and his bones frozen solid. Her words were only half heard. Without notice, his body came alive and he reacted, his hands going to her shoulders, ready to push her away, ready to snap, ready to snatch the pain that was in him and coming from Harper and throw it as far away as he could. He didn’t want this, he couldn’t handle this. He was too raw. He was too open for her to see. And she took advantage of that, she kissed him. She could’ve snapped his neck and he would’ve been less surprised. Instead of the growl that had burrowed up to his throat, a whimper was the sound that escaped instead. She was gone the next moment and away from him, away from his hands, away from his mourning and grieving and sadness and that was what motivated his emotions to turn it all into anger. That she could make that mistake and try to run away, to flee from the crime she had committed. He was the unlawful act. “Harper,” finally came his growl, already having her turned back to her last name rather than her first. He prowled forward, returning his hands to his bare shoulders, gripping her, knowing she could take whatever strength he was unwillingly using, “you can’t do that. You can’t use me like you use everyone else. You can’t use me to replace what you have lost.” But he can. His hands ran down her body until he found her thighs and using them as a base, lifted her up to wrap her legs around his waist and finding the nearest wall, he slammed her against it and kissed her again, letting the wolf in him making the decisions, and saving the human guilt for later.

[h-ellriot]

Harper sat in panicked, terrified silence, only able to hear the blood rushing in her ears and the frozen absence of her breathing in contest with how hard his was coming, too quick and too strong and too loud, like he might start hyperventilating and it would be her fault because she’d fucking kissed him. She finally gave a breath when he said her name, fingernails digging into her cheeks as she kept her hands clamped over her mouth and the rush of air came out over the tops of them, sudden and hard. She shook her head in response, frozen in spot as he started to come towards her - maybe she had a death wish, maybe she just wanted him, maybe it was a little of both - but she didn’t move, letting him get closer, then too close for her to run without him catching her. “No,” she gave as his hands caught her shoulders, as he spoke, denying his words. “I’m not. I’m not using you, I’m -” she broke off, breath coming faster as his hands flatted her body. It was the most contact they’d ever had, whether accidental or not, and she couldn’t help thinking about how good he felt. His hands practically circled her entirely, fingers so wide and palms so big - they may have been on equal footing when it came to strength, but he looked so much stronger - every inch the animal, the wolf, long blonde hair and stubble and he smelled like the woods, the dirt, the trees right after it rains, the scent embedded in his skin and overwhelming when he was this close to her, when she could practically hear the thud of his heartbeat pounding against the back of her skull. Her hands came to his shoulders as he lifted her, nails digging in hard when her back hit the wall of someone’s cabin - abandoned, probably; soon to be demolished, she expected - and fit her knees higher up on his torso so she could grind against him, mimicking the press of their lips with the rock of her hips and moving an arm around his shoulders, getting as close to him as she possibly could. He could use her; she could work with this, she could be used - she knew how to be something other people needed, and she could be whatever the hell he needed, so long as he kept his heartbeat pressed against the lack of hers.

[davinasquarters]

What are you doing out here?

[h-ellriot]

Juliet won’t let me go home until the whole ‘paralyzed and sort of dying’ thing stops being a thing.

[oliverlatour-blog]

It took him a moment or two to forget how to roll his eyes around her, but without fail, here he was doing it again. Jackson had been able to see the good in her, enough to take his clothes off, but he’s able to see the better in anyone, if he tries hard enough. Oliver never found a talent in that. It was better, for the both of them for the balance, that he saw the bad before anything else. That he was distrusting of people whereas Jackson could easily slip into that relationship of trust. If people wanted the easy route, they could go to the good cop — the alpha — but Oliver would be right behind him, suiting up as the bad cop, ready to tear your throat out at the first sign of misgiving. They made a good team; or so he liked to think. “I wouldn’t call you a slut, Mary,” he tapped his fingers on his right knee, shaking his head absentmindedly, “you’re free to sleep with who you want to. I was raised by a woman who taught me that no matter what choices they make, whether they’re weak or strong, whether they’re at the front lines or the back, women are not to be judged. I’ll still judge the hell outta you, but you won’t hear me calling you names.”

Without thinking, Oliver reached out and grabbed her wrist after her thumb had touched her lip and leaned towards her. “I don’t love her because it gives me a good look,” he looked into her eyes, up close and vulnerable as hell, and as soon as he realized what he was doing, he let go of her wrist. But he didn’t move away. “I love her because she’s my sister. Because I would do anything to protect her. That’s how I love anyone. It’s how I loved Piper, but I couldn’t protect her. I tried; you see that I tried, didn’t you?” In the end, it didn’t matter if Harper saw it or not. She was still gone. He was still angry. He had still failed. Luckily, he was still drunk. 

[h-ellriot]

Harper raised an eyebrow, laughing despite herself. “A werewolf feminist. I don’t know why that feels like a juxtaposition, but it does,” she told him, then laughed again. “But seriously; Alpha is Jackson’s title, Whore is mine. I’ve accepted it,” she gave, though she hadn’t and a part of her thought he might know that - which scared her to no end. Harper’s relationship with sex wasn’t one that was easily explained - long and convoluted, defined by how she’d been raised in constant contrast to the beliefs she’d developed for herself, both influenced by a man so comfortable in his body and with the bodies of others and by her own, not-quite-human experience... the fact of the matter was, Harper didn’t know how to make sense of it, and she didn’t know how to make sense of it for anyone else.

Harper froze when he grabbed her - it was a heartbeat of fear and the ebb of shock that held her in place; he’d never touched her of his own volition before, and the violence that shot through the quick, demanding contact made her breath catch in her throat, hard and sharp and painful. It was terrifying, and it was hot, and she hated that she connected the two with this man - the one mad she absolutely should not, could not. She took a breath when he let go of her, missing the contact more than she should have and flexing her hand, the echo of the touch feeling like a handcuff burn she wanted back. “I know,” Harper said, breathless and quiet. “I know, Oliver; I know you tried - and she knew you tried, and you loved her, and she loved you, and it was good,” she said, unsure why she was saying it, unsure of the words before they were out of her mouth - and then she was touching him, putting a hand through his hair to pull it from his face, going to cradle the back of his head, her other hand spanning flat out against his breastbone, fingers to his collar and the base of her palm against his heart. “It was good and you, are good. You are good, Oliver, and you did the absolute best you could and we all know that, and -” she broke off, leaning up a little to press her lips to his forehead, the thrum of booze and adrenalin numbing common sense and boundaries. “And God, she loved you. You are so loved, Oliver. Loved, and...” she trailed off, the words mumbled to his forehead before she pulled back a little, then finished; “Wanted,” before pressing her lips against his, hard and unforgiving and edging too far over the line of desperate. When she caught herself, she broke away - faster than any human, shoving back to put at least two feet of distance between them and clamping her hands over her mouth, looking at him in horror.

[oliverlatour-blog]

Sometime throughout the tine, Oliver had become in tune with her reactions. She didn’t groan out loud, but the sound still went through his ear and he wanted to make fun of her, wanted to ask her what she expected from him. She had approached him knowing he didn’t like her. She had come to him, with only a single bottle, and a promise to never pester him again. Never once had he thought her words were true; Harper had become a part of his life like Klaus had, like seeing witches in and out had. She had become a constant in a life where they could so easily evaporate. Would he remember to mourn her, if Harper died? 

“I would have never described you as virginal before, but if the name fits,” he teased, the booze having loosened him up, probably Harper’s original intention. He began to realize she needed the distraction as much as he did; maybe not just from Piper, but from everyone she had lost. It killed him to think of this vampire as another person, who felt loss and who felt the joys and hopes of a normal person. It killed him because he had been raised in a place where vampires weren’t accepted. They weren’t people, they had no souls. Their history had never mattered before. He had never sat with one, passing a drink back and forth, sharing stories with no relation to one another. He had never tried to get to know a vampire. And, still, Oliver didn’t want to. It was only… Harper had loved Piper. She loved everybody, she wanted to love everyone, but what mattered was she had adored Piper like he had. That was the common theme he needed to sit down and relate with a blood sucking creature of the night. It killed him, and it made him think in the way Oliver had never thought before, but Harper Elliot, as he knew her, was helping. “I don’t care,” he said honestly, thinking of all the evil people he wished he could repay. “I spent nights turning and tossing thinking about the guy Vivian was forced to kill, that was her trigger. Nothing more would’ve made me happier than finding his entire family and murdering them one by one, so even in death, he couldn’t have peace. His entire life would’ve been the reason his family’s were taken from them.” Oliver still thought about it sometimes, having known the guy’s name after going into town and finding the body, to bury it. When Jackson had been busy comforting their sister, he’d been cleaning up the mess. It had given  his hands something to do, his mind something to focus on. It never got rid of the anger, but it had postponed it. “Never did it. I’d like to think I am, but I’m not that sadistic, and if Vivian had ever discovered when I’d done, she would’ve never forgiven me.” Oliver couldn’t imagine a world where Vivian didn’t have his back, wasn’t standing at his side slightly behind him, ready to catch him if he ever fell. There wasn’t a world where Vivian wasn’t in it. 

[h-ellriot]

Harper rolled her eyes, huffing a little. “Shutup. I’m not. I’m usually out there, sluttin’ it up,” she said gesturing forwards, as though to the collection of people she’d gotten naked over the last century. “Which you well know, considering...” she trailed off, gesturing again towards an imaginary Piper and Jackson, then waving it away, knitting her brow a little. It made her ache, a little more than a little bit - a painful sort of hollowness that sat in the center of her chest. She’d loved so many people; she’d loved too many people - she felt like she’d given parts of herself to them all, and they’d taken the parts with her when their hearts had stopped. The box under her bed was full of photos of them all - their faces, close ups on smiles and frowns, hands, fingers, the juts of their hips and the lines of their ankles. She’d loved them all, and sometimes she wondered if she was going to run out of parts of herself to give away. She made a noise of soft, pained disgruntlement, pressing the heel of her palm to the center of her chest like she could rub the emptiness out of her ribcage.

“Good,” Harper said softly, pressing a little harder to her chest. “Neither do I,” she added, referencing her list of kills. She nodded after he finished speaking, giving a simple sort of breath and taking her hand from her chest, running her nails against the back of her neck. “You really love her,” she observed, elbowing him lightly in the arm. “It’s a good look on you, Latour,” she shifted, turning to sit with one ankle tucked under her knee, facing him. “Loving people, I mean -” she broke off, considering. His hair was too long; it suited him, but anywhere but here - it would be too much. Same with his facial hair; the mountain man look was very him, and the strangely softened sort of anger that sat in his eyes was endearing; interesting. As she’d said, a good look on him. “Yeah,” she finished with a breath, brushing her lip with the base of her thumb. “A good look,”

[howlingmarshall]

Already done, I want to have a photographic evidence when I tell the Mikaelsons about this.

Too late, Harper. You guys, like, took a bath together? Kinky. Well, I didn’t hear any complaining, so I think you’re good. — How are you feeling?”

[h-ellriot]

I hate you. Like, I just want you to know that.

Also, you better not tell them before I’m gone - I don’t want Elijah showing up here in all his nobility and dignity and getting a fight with the pack over me.

No - well, sort of; they had to hold me up because of where my spine is severed, can’t really do it on my own, and use washcloths to help me get all the blood off without ripping my stitches. I’m so glad this isn’t permanent, Hayley; I don’t even know how to tell you.

Uh, like I got blown up, mostly. Better than I did when I had my stomach open, but... I’ve been better.